She leaned in across the dinner table, fork raised like a general about to issue top-secret orders.
"I need you to be extra romantic tomorrow," she whispered, eyes gleaming like she was plotting a heist.
He blinked. "Romantic like... flowers? Or romantic like I pretend I write poetry and quote Shakespeare over breakfast?"
"Romantic like full-blown rom-com," she said, dead serious. "Hand-holding. Twirls. You dramatically tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear while whispering 'you're my forever'. You gaze at me like I invented oxygen."
He paused. "So... Disney prince levels of delusion."
"Exactly!" she beamed, clapping once. "I want sparkles. Drama. Preferably a public kiss that looks like it belongs in a slow-motion montage. You know, give the local pigeons a love story."
He narrowed his eyes. "What's the catch? There's always a catch. Am I going to find out later I was also supposed to fake propose or something?"
She took a slow sip of her wine. "No catch."
He stared.
She stared back, completely unreadable.
Then she added, "Oh, right. Just one tiny detail. Your actual girlfriend's flying in tomorrow. Surprise!"
He choked. "I'm sorry—what?!"
"She's coming to the charity gala, isn't she?" Fiona tilted her head innocently, batting her lashes like she hadn't just set fire to his love life. "I figured we'd give her a show. Build some tension. Get her heart rate up. It's basically cardio."
He was already digging out his phone like it was a defibrillator. The screen lit up.
28 missed calls.
One message, in all caps:
"WHO TF IS THAT GIRL U FED A STRAWBERRY TO???"
Fiona lost it. She doubled over, nearly falling off her chair, laughing so hard she snorted. "This is going beautifully."
"I swear, you're going to get me murdered," he muttered, scrolling through messages. "I'm going to die. She's going to bury me in a shallow grave with nothing but your stolen snacks."
"Oh please," Fiona waved a hand, still giggling. "She should be thanking me. I'm improving your improv skills and emotional range. I've seen you flirt—it's like watching paint dry."
He gave her a betrayed look. "That's rude."
"I'm just saying," she shrugged, "if we're going to pull off the 'tortured lovers on vacation' bit, I need you to sell it. That means eye contact. Brooding. Maybe dramatically whisper my name into the sea breeze a few times."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm gonna need hazard pay."
"Don't be dramatic," she said, already opening Instagram. "Smile, loverboy. We've got paparazzi to confuse and hearts to break."
"Oh God. I just saw a new headline: 'Mysterious Woman Causes Rift Between PSG Star and Supermodel Girlfriend.' That's you."
She smirked. "They didn't even use my good angle."
He shook his head and sighed. "When I'm homeless, I'm crashing at your place."
"Feel free," she said sweetly. "Just know I hide all the good snacks in a box labeled 'expired cat food'. You'll never find them."
He groaned.
She winked.
Tomorrow was going to be chaos.
And she couldn't wait.